


Like A Tiger That’s Afraid To Bite

by skyline



Category: South Park
Genre: At least twenty five percent crack, Kenny is enigmatically sad, Kyle is matchmaking, M/M, Stan is thirsty af, attempts to turn sex into love, dubcon then and now, they banged in high school and now Stan wants to bang ALWAYS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-07 21:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17968031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: “Okay. I’m saying this for your own good, Stan. I think Kenny likes you.”Stan snorts in patent disbelief.“I think Kenny likes you so much that it freaks him out. I think he wants to jump your bones, but he’s scared of losing you, so he needs an excuse. We’re going to give him one.”





	1. Chapter 1

The joke around South Park is that Kenny McCormick will sleep with anybody for a shiny nickel.

Cartman started spreading that gem around in sixth grade, and it caught on like wildfire. But truth is, he’s not completely wrong. Kenny doesn’t let anybody pay him for sex – he’s not a whore – but he’s not exactly discerning about who he fools around with.

“-my dudes, her tits were like water balloons-“

“Whatever that means.”

“You’ve got a college degree, Broflovski, and you still don’t know the touch of a woman. It’s a crying shame.”

“Kenny, I’m gay.”

“Yeah, you fucking are,” Cartman crows.

“Shut it, fatass,” Kyle retorts with surprisingly little ire. He swirls his fry around in a pink-orange mixture of mayo, ketchup, and hot sauce that makes Cartman wrinkle his nose and try to snatch the plate away. Kyle guards it easily, old basketball reflexes in action.

Stan clears his throat. “As much as we all love hearing about your, uh. Exploits.”

Kenny waggles his eyebrows.

Hastily, Stan barrels on, “Maybe cut it out so we can celebrate the real reason Cartman hauled his ass outside today.”

“Ey! I go outside. Regularly!”

Kyle places his palm over Cartman’s mouth and seconds, “Yeah, no one wants to hear your war stories, dickwad.”

“Honey, you love my war stories.” Kenny slings an arm around Kyle’s shoulders, and Stan’s lips tick downwards. “But yeah, yeah. Congrats on adulthood I guess.”

Kyle squirms under the wiry limb. “It’s a job, not a fucking bar mitzvah. Jesus.”

“Are you allowed to say Jesus?” Cartman inquires. He’s summarily ignored.

“Well, congrats on the nine to five grind,” Kenny raises his beer in a toast. “It’s about time you joined the workforce, you lazy bastard.”

“I was in med school,” Kyle protests, outraged.

“Obvs. I bet you autopsied all the hot corpses,” Kenny says wistfully.

“Sick, dude!”

Kenny uses Kyle’s horrified paralysis to snag a fry and lift Kyle’s beer to his gaping mouth, all in one smoothly orchestrated move. “Drink up, sweetheart. It only gets worse from here.”

The two of them continue to tread the line between banter and bickering, with the occasional snide remark from Cartman thrown in. And all the while, Stan watches the mad glint in Kenny’s eye, barely following the conversation.

When Kenny’s like this, manically happy, tipsy verging on drunk, it always brings Stan back.

To rough hands framing his hips.

To the hot-wet glide of Kenny’s plush lips against his neck.

To the push-pull rhythm of being taken apart, reshaped.

Because here’s the thing. Kenny McCormick will sleep with anything that moves, for free, and that includes his best friends. The people who should damn well know better.

Except Stan didn’t. Because he let Kenny fuck him once, at a party their junior year in high school, and the memory of it lives in the hollow space between his heart and his lungs.

It was the biggest mistake of his life.

Because Stan let Kenny fuck him once, and he’s been head over heels for the guy ever since.

* * *

 

Stan drives Kyle to Hell’s Pass his first morning on the job, with a celebratory macchiato in the car’s only cup holder and his own black coffee propped between his thighs.

He takes a sip of it while Kyle stares up at the hospital like he’s never been inside it before.

“The encroaching dread is cute, man, but I’ve got to be at work in half an hour.”

“D-bag,” Kyle retorts, but the taunt spurs him into unbuckling his seat belt, which is progress.

“You’re going to do great.” Stan holds his coffee up in a toast. “Better than great. Everyone in there is psychotic, so you’re doing them a favor just by walking inside.”

Kyle glares. “You’re not helping.”

“I know.” Stan pats his cheek. “But you do adorable bitchface. I couldn’t help it.”

At that, Kyle snorts and grabs his coffee from the console. “You’re great at pep talks. You should be a coach or something.”

Stan curves a grin in his direction. “What an apt idea.”

Kyle shoves his shoulder. “Alright, I’m okay. I’m going now. Don’t let any children beat you up.”

“Right back at you,” Stan says as Kyle opens the passenger side door. “If anyone tries to bully you, remember you’ve got a scalpel. Don’t eat the green jello! Make good choices!”

Kyle flips him off and staggers over the snowy parking lot towards the Emergency Room. Stan shakes his head and mutters, “That crazy kid. He’s going to make it.”

Then he pulls the car into gear and makes the short drive over to the high school, where he is, in fact, an assistant football coach. The pay is shit but Stan likes the benefits, including, but not limited to three months’ vacation every summer and the way the kids treat him like he’s some kind of legend.

He had a good run in high school, between football, hockey, and track. He even did a few seasons with the swim team, although Kyle and Kenny were always better in the water than he was.

Stan thinks about the pool at Park County High, the chlorine blue against the freckled, pale skin of Kenny’s shoulders. Then he stops thinking about it, because nothing good comes from that train of thought.

He’s got a reserved parking spot at the far end of the school, which essentially means he has to slog through the icy crust coating the ground the same way he would if he’d parked at the lot’s entrance. He wraps his scarf a few times around his neck, pulling his hat farther down around his ears.

The hellish cold is familiar, but Stan’s nose tints bright red the second he steps out of his car. He takes the sidewalk at a slow jog, nearly barreling over Mrs. Olinsky, the freshman history teacher.

“Stanley!” She bats her weathered lashes his way. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hey Mrs. O!” Stan says, breathier than he actually is because he knows she likes that. She buys into his outward good old boy charm, and he plays it up.

Stan likes being liked.

“Brisk out, isn’t it?”

Stan turns, walking backward to keep up the conversation. “Totally. What’s on the lesson plan today?”

“The Black Death,” she emits a squeal of girlish glee, and Stan suddenly wonders if she’s behind the uptick of rats he’s seen around the school.

It wouldn’t be the first time a teacher at Park County tried to sneakily off a few hundred students.

He makes a mental note to call animal control and the FBI, both of whom he has on speed dial, and forces a smile. “Alrighty then. Sounds fun.”

A rat scurries in front of the steps leading up into the halls, and they both pause. Stan says, “Probably not a plague rat,” while Mrs. Olinsky says, “I surely wouldn’t know anything about that,” in a sweet deflection.

When they part ways, out of habit, Stan texts Kenny a warning to stay away from the high school.

Kenny texts back, _dude, why tf would I go near the high school_ , and then, after a few minutes of ellipses popping on and off the screen, he writes, _fuck the bubonic plague, man. I’ve already died from that. Twice._

Stan sends back that emoji blowing a heart, cocky and sarcastic and genuine in equal measure.

He doesn’t hear back from Kenny that day.

* * *

 

Stan does not live with his parents because he is an adult and because he can’t stand the ever present aroma of weed. But he still pops by for dinner whenever he can manage it. His own cooking skills mostly involve whatever food delivery app he can call up quickest, although he does boil a mean pot of pasta.

“How was school today, honey?”

“Mom,” Stan groans. “Don’t ask it like that.”

Sharon shrugs, more easygoing about the two absolute sass-monsters she raised now that Shelley moved to Boulder and Stan has enough expendable income that he can wash his own underwear. “How was school today, my tiny baby boy?”

Stan makes a noise of disgust and crosses his arms. “My job was fine. Because it’s a job. I’m not still in high school.”

“Seems like you are,” Randy comments, one eye glued to the TV, half visible in the living room.

“No one asked you.”

“I’m allowed to have an opinion, Stan. Can I have an opinion, Sharon?”

“I don’t know. Can you?” Sharon asks coolly.

They’re having marital issues, again, which makes Stan all itchy under his skin. He can never figure out if he wants his parents to get divorced already or if he’d rather they make up for the ninety thousandth time.

Kyle’s parents don’t fight like this.

Kenny’s do, but they adore each other the rest of the while.

Sharon and Randy, though, they jump from mildly affectionate to nuclear winter in a way that has always made Stan uncomfortable, never knowing where he should stand.

“I stopped a plot to wage biological warfare against the students today,” Stan announces, desperate to change the subject.

He describes Mrs. Olinsky’s arrest in detail, but all he gets is a lukewarm _hmm_ from his mom and an, _In my day, a little plague made kids stronger_ , from Randy.

Stan rolls his eyes and eats his meatloaf in silence. He should’ve ordered UberEats.

* * *

 

The next evening, he’s saved from the prospect of a delivery guy’s judgmental eyes by Kyle’s Operation Party at Pour Decisions. Admittedly, the fake corpses posed in grotesque shapes against the leafy-green, gold embossed wallpaper of the brewery aren’t exactly helping his appetite, but it was sweet of Cartman to try.

“You shouldn’t’ve,” Kyle insists for the thousandth time, with a sort of desperate hope that maybe if he closes his eyes, this all won’t be happening.

Of course, Cartman merely grins wider, comically pleased with himself. Stan doesn’t even know why Kyle’s bothering – when Stan landed his coaching gig, Cartman threw him a Football Party, which would’ve been fine if Cartman didn’t have a very narrow idea of what football entailed.

He’d pasted giant, half naked photos of attractive men with a variety of balls all over the brewery. Most of them weren’t even real athletes – just promo snaps from sports-themed porn – which mostly meant Stan couldn’t look up without blushing at some dude’s spandex-framed scrotum.

This is an improvement, in his opinion.

The three of them are huddled in a green vinyl booth that boasts quite the spread of doctor themed snacks, including a beer pretzel shaped like a bone, and bloody-hot wings. Meanwhile, Kenny is up at the bartop, talking in a low voice to Bebe’s breasts while she mixes a few fancy cocktails for the only other people in the place on this fine Tuesday evening.

Bebe’s the bartender-cum-owner of Pour Decisions, the only craft brew place that has managed to stick around these parts. Say what you will about Colorado and hipsters, but even with a Whole Foods, South Park remains incredibly loyal to cheap beer and boxed wine, made the old fashioned way, usually at Skeeter’s.

In fact, there’s a theory floating around that the only reason Bebe’s managed to keep Pour Decisions afloat is because she uses it to launder money for her crime syndicate.

She tells everyone it’s a lie and she’s _really passionate about hops_ and shit, but who knows? Nothing surprises Stan anymore.

“He’s such a whore,” Cartman comments, gesturing one meaty hand towards Kenny and Bebe.

Stan watches the way Kenny’s ass shifts in his tight, faded jeans and swallows.

“At least he’s consistent,” Kyle drawls.

He looks tired, the hospital already taking its toll, but he also looks happy. Kyle’s dreamt of being a doctor since they took freshman biology. He sips his beer and quietly glows with pride.

And Stan is proud of him, or would be, if he could tear his eyes off Kenny and Bebe.

They’re framed by the rows of white and brown spot lit liquor at Bebe’s back. “Do you think they’ve slept together?”

“Definitely,” Cartman crows, forever the know-it-all.

Kyle makes a face, less enthused. No one likes to think about ex-sex when they’re not in the equation. “Ugh, why?”

“No reason,” Stan says, ignoring the way Kyle’s expression skews.

He tries to steal a piece of the beer pretzel, which Cartman’s tugged onto his side of the table. Cartman doesn’t even notice, which is strange.

Stranger still is that it’s the second day in a row he’s driven into town.

It makes Stan wonder if things are on the rocks with Wendy. They both live out in the city, working at defense contractors and dating on and off, but he won’t ask for details. A, because it’s _Wendy_ , and B, because he really doesn’t want to hear about anybody else’s dysfunctional relationship. He gets enough of that with his parents.

Bebe turns to grab a bottle of bourbon from one of her shelves, and Kenny’s eyes are moon-big as he zeroes in on her butt.  

“He has no shame,” Kyle mutters, annoyed because he and Bebe dated, before his grand pronouncement that her spectacular rack did nothing for him. He’s still possessive.

Protective, maybe.

Bebe also dated Clyde Donovan once. They were good together, but Kyle hated on Clyde the whole time, too. 

“Like that’s news,” Cartman replies blithely, waving it all away. He tears off a chunk of pretzel and goads, “Tell us about your joooob.”

Obviously, that raises Kyle’s suspicions. “Why the fuck do you want to know?” 

Stan has nothing to add to this conversation, which quickly devolves into an argument.

“What did you _do_ , Cartman?”

“Nothing. Jesus, Kyle, your paranoia’s getting the better of you-“

“It wouldn’t be the first time you sabotaged my career, you fat bastard!”

“I’m not fat, asshole!”

He nibbles at his stolen prize and waits out his friends’ bickering. But he doesn’t stop watching Kenny.

Not the way he drinks a neat glass of bourbon in slow, appreciative sips, nor the way he laughs when Bebe shoos him away with a wave of her dishtowel.

Definitely not the way his smile is crooked and warm, and fills Stan with this want that he can’t seem to quit.

That smile fills his stupid dreams, has done for years, and when Stan licks his lips he tastes tequila and Kenny, the same way he did back then.

He turns back to his beer almost aggressively, and is surprised to see Kyle watching him with a mixture of concern and fondness that he’s worn more and more often lately. “Are you – okay?”

“Sure am. Hey, did I tell you about Mrs. Olinsky?” Stan wraps his arm around Kyle’s shoulders, shifting gears into full-on distraction mode.

He regales him with his tales of heroics, because Kyle appreciates him in all his valor, and listens, unlike the people who birthed Stan.

Cartman provides unhelpful commentary, and everything is normal, normal, normal. “-so then I told the FBI that I’d seen three of the rats come out of her classroom-“

(Stan chatting up his feats of bravery: the most normal.)

“That bitch should’ve used an aerosol,” Cartman says shrewdly. “Animals are unreliable.”

(And that’s normal too, Eric’s random acts of homicide.)

“Why are we friends with you?” Kyle questions, (the most normal thing, Kyle questioning everything). “No, I’m serious, you’re a complete psycho-“

Stan has himself half-convinced that everything couldn’t get more normal, and then.

Then Kenny bids Bebe farewell with an ironic salute and heads outside for a smoke.

That’s when Stan defies normality, their perfectly ordered universe, and jumps to his feet, freeing himself from Kyle’s signature scent of juniper, sandalwood, and pine. “I’m going to grab some air.”

“Uh, okay.” Cartman mean-mugs at him, turned extra sinister by the presence of the armless, legless mannequin propped behind him, a precise cut across its imaginary spleen. “Pussy.”

Kyle punches Cartman in the arm, ever-ready for an excuse to do so. “Shut your big mouth, idiot.”

The signature, nasally sound of Cartman’s whine follows Stan as he flees past a mock-corpse slathered in fake blood, and on out the back door of the bar.

It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the low alley light, and in that minute, Stan processes Kenny in shapes:

The glowing circle of cigarette embers and the rectangular frame of bricks etch out his silhouette. Then the orange of his parka comes into focus, the same one he’s worn since Sophomore year of high school, when his shoulders broadened out and his skinny frame shot way, way up.

He watches Stan approach with fever-bright eyes, the tip of his cigarette turning his pupils to flame. “Stan, my man. Want one?”

He tilts the carton Stan’s way, an offer that he doesn’t expect Stan to take.

“Nah.” Stan closes the distance between them in a few strides and settles back against the crumbling wall, shoulders square and tenser than he means to be. “Thought I’d keep you company.”

“I do get so lonely,” Kenny jokes. He’s always joking around.

Stan tries to catch a glimpse at Kenny’s face, but he can’t sight more than the eerie gleam of blue and orange eyes, like tiny flames flickering in and out of shadow under faux fur and artfully tousled hair. He’s such a fucking tableau out here, in the dark, so mysterious and so damn cool.

Annoyed, Stan reaches out and pushes the hood of Kenny’s parka down.

Kenny scowls, a familiar moue of irritation. “Shit, dude, what’d you do that for? I’m going to freeze my ears off.”

Stan takes off his hat and plops it lopsided on Kenny’s head, longish blond strands sticking haywire out the end.

“I couldn’t see your face,” he explains. Only, it doesn’t sound like much of an explanation, out loud.

“O-kay.” Kenny smacks his lips on the second syllable, but doesn’t argue. He’s used to the bizarre. “Cartman went all out this time.”

“When doesn’t he?” Stan muses. The wind rustles through the alley, sharp-cold against his scalp.

“He is the definition of extra.” Kenny smirks. He turns his gaze up towards the stars salting the night sky, searching for meteors, or aliens, or the international space station, maybe. He takes a drag off the cigarette and concludes, “But his relationship’s on the rocks again.”

“Thought it might be.”

“Hmm. Maybe you should take advantage. Ring up Wendy? Ask her for a quick favor?” Kenny wags his eyebrows lewdly.

“Dude.” Stan glares at him, hurt and appalled at the same time. “Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I won’t sock you in the face.”

Kenny throws Stan his best asshole grin. “Try it.”

“Nah. You’re too pretty for a black eye.”

The cigarette between Kenny’s lips bobs as his mouth curves down. “I’m not pretty.”

Thoughtlessly, Stan responds, “You’re not ugly.”

It’s not the answer Kenny’s looking for. He lifts a shoulder and rolls his eyes, anxiety sudden and thick in the air. “But seriously, man. Why aren’t you seeing anybody? It wouldn’t hurt you to get laid.”

Now Stan’s the one frowning. “You’re awfully invested in this.”

“I like it when my buds enjoy happy, fulfilled sex lives.” Kenny replies with the practiced ease of a lie.

Or maybe it’s not a lie. Why would it be? Kenny doesn’t know what Stan wants.

Stan’s never told him.

He opens his mouth, says, “Hey-“

But Kenny must sense blood in the water. He throws the butt of his cigarette on snow-wet asphalt and says, “We should get back inside.”

This is what it’s like, every time Stan feels brave. Whenever he toes up to the edge of the precipice, of some grand declaration of love. It’s some sign from the universe, the way that Kenny has a sixth sense for danger, for instinctively leaving a room the second things get dicey.

Or in this case, the alley.

Stan watches him retreat back into the warmth of Pour Decisions, cold at the tips of his ears and his nose and the base of his spine. He thunks his head back against eroding red brick and realizes why.

Kenny still has his hat.

Rather than go back inside, Stan goes home.

* * *

 

Which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake.

Look, Stan isn’t renowned for sound decision making. He tells Kyle that, on the phone the next morning, while he’s ironing his button down for school. “-I know, dude, I’m sorry! I-“

“-can’t believe you ditched me like that, Stan! Kenny went right on back to chatting up my ex-girlfriend, and I had to spend the whole night with Fatass, trying to therapize him back out to the city-“

“Therapize?” Stan pauses, phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, iron poised in midair. Clyde uses the chance to whack him on his bare stomach with a spatula, darting around Stan in their tiny kitchen.

“What are you doing, asshole? Striking a pose?”

Clyde bustles over to the stovetop, fully suited up and intent on making the perfect pancake.

He does this every morning.

Meanwhile, Stan’s still standing there, half-naked and in slacks, holding the iron in the air like a moron.

He sets it carefully back on the board, nudged up against the divide between their kitchen and living room, because that’s the only space they had free for it. He asks Kyle, “What’s wrong with Cartman?”

“Wendy,” Kyle says, like it explains everything. And it does, and Stan doesn’t want to hear more because _Wendy_ , but Kyle continues, “She dumped him again. For a barista.”

“Shit,” Stan says, worried about the poor, innocent, blue collar barista who has no idea that Cartman’s going to try to murder him fifty-six ways until Sunday. Stan wonders if he’s still on that poison kick.

“I know, I hate when they bring other people into it!”

From the stove, Clyde asks, “Do you want bananas in yours?”

“You’re making me fat, Donovan,” Stan snaps back, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. Clyde’s the best roommate a guy could want, and his pancakes are first class.

“Is that Clyde?” Kyle asks. “Tell him hey.”

“Kyle says hey,” Stan tells Clyde.

“Tell Kyle to get off the phone so you can put a shirt on.”

Kyle hears, and says, “Wait, are you naked?”

“I’m not-“ Stan stutters. “ _Naked_ , obviously. I’m ironing.”

“Sure. Everything about that sentence makes sense.”

“I do have to go, though,” Stan tells him apologetically. “School, and everything.”

“Right, yeah. I’ve got to get to work too.” Kyle sighs. “You’re still a dick. Bye.”

Stan doesn’t get the chance to object, his cell going dead. To Clyde, he says, “Thanks a lot for that.”

“No problem.” Clyde grins, and Stan can’t really stay mad. They’ve been friends forever, teammates for half of eternity, and roommates for at least five years. That’s a lot of history to stay annoyed over.

Besides, whenever Stan has a nervous breakdown, Clyde gives the best hugs in town. “So, bananas?”

“Sure.” Stan puts the finishing touches on his shirt and loops it over his shoulders. He figures Kyle will forgive him about ditching the party sometime soon.

“How’s our team doing this year?”

“Oh, we’re shit,” Stan replies cheerily. “We were born shit, we are living shit, and we will die shit.”

“Amen,” Clyde replies, and does the Park Country High salute, which is a complicated gesture that includes cow ears and udders. Clyde’s ridiculous doing it, spatula and all, but no one can deny he has team spirit.

With care, Stan finishes the last of his buttons and begins, “I saw Bebe last night.”

“You have a drinking problem.”

“Who says I was at the bar?”

“Weren’t you?”

Stan falters. “Um. Yes. But, uh. She looked good.”

Clyde frowns, hands on his hips with the spatula carefully balanced so as not to drip batter on his freshly pressed slacks. He hates when Stan is a busybody, and this isn’t any different.

Even if Clyde and Bebe are made for each other.

“Nice try, Marsh.” After a beat, Clyde shoves a plate of pancakes and a bottle of syrup into Stan’s hands. “Eat up, and get out.”

* * *

 

The high school closes early that afternoon for reasons Stan doesn’t completely track. He hears something about _the rapture_ and _the smiting hand of god_ over the warbly intercom system and makes the executive choice to beat feet to the parking lot so he can overtake the pushy seniors on their way out the door.

In the quiet refuge of his car, he texts Kyle, and then Kenny, that their town is absolutely _batshit_.

A Sophomore girl begins to sob three cars down, her boyfriend shouting obscenities at some monstrous beast that Stan can’t see, but nobody texts Stan back.

Kyle’s still mad, and Kenny never met an unpleasant situation he couldn’t avoid. It makes Stan grip the steering wheel too tight, stitching cutting into his palms.

He never should have gotten defensive about his sex life. It’s not like Kenny’s aware that he features heavily in most of Stan’s late night fantasies, or how difficult it’s been to hold down his last three relationships because – _you always prioritize your friends, Stan_.

Wendy was the only one who really understood the how and the why of the center axis Stan’s world spins around, and even she couldn’t hack it, in the end.

Resolutely, Stan forces himself to stop moping. All it leads to is a long draw off the bottle of whiskey he’s got stashed in his sock drawer and a few miserably strummed-out songs on his beaten guitar. From there it’s a slippery slide to Clyde figuring out that he’s wallowing, and using those comforting brown-cow eyes of his to lure Stan into a confession.

Fuck that. He’s got more important things to do.

He backs out of his space, carefully to avoid whatever hellspawn has broken loose from the school basement – something with tentacles, not his problem – and heads straight to City Wok. He can’t fix everything all at once, but nothing cools Kyle’s ire like piping hot Chinese food, and Stan is not above bribery.

* * *

 

Three days later finds Stan at Kenny’s door with a six pack of beer and a wavering grin.

“Go away,” Craig commands, stone cold.

“Dude. Don’t be like that.”

“I’m watching my shows.”

“Right, right. Is Kenny watching them with you?”

The idea of it makes Stan a little nauseous, even though Kenny and Craig are roommates and have been for years. They watch dumb TV together all the time.

They also get a little casual side action all the time, if you believe what Kenny’s selling, and Stan does. He can’t imagine anyone not wanting to see Kenny in all his _au naturel_ glory.

Craig grimaces. “No.”

“Great!” Stan replies brightly, shoving past him and into their apartment.

He’s greeted by a threadbare couch draped in several multicolored alpaca throw blankets, because Craig has never forgiven any of them for Peru, and everyone finds it hilarious. There are a few psychedelic tapestries that make Stan’s eyes water strewn across the walls, a framed photo of the Tuckers, the McCormicks, and another of Kenny and Karen at Disneyland. Dead center of everything, Craig’s got a bong the color of sea glass balanced on a wicker coffee table they stole from his mom.

That’s it. That’s the main room. Empty of Kenny, Stan notes. He turns a questioning look on Craig, who sighs. “He’s recording.”

“Thanks, man. I’ll get you a new llama statue or something.”

“I fucking hate you.”

Stan meanders down the hall, bottles clinking while he walks, and he takes up a spot in the doorway of Kenny’s bedroom, where Kenny is talking animatedly to his laptop.

Figures. Scratched to hell, with a sticker from the Peppermint Hippo pasted haphazard against the back, Kenny’s laptop is essentially his livelihood.

Initially, he started making cam boy videos a few years back, which sustained him out of school, but Kenny’s smarter than most people give him credit for. He figured out a quicker way to make a buck.

“-and if you look really closely at the corner here, you can see my liver-“

Stan winces. He wasn’t onboard when Kenny started posting videos of his deaths on YouTube, but he can’t deny that it’s worked. Kenny has a few million followers, and some sweet advertising deals set up that keeps cash steady and flowing.

Occasionally, when things get slow, Kenny goes back to camming, but for the most part, the tiny, discreet CCTV network he’s set up all over South Park, filming the most horrific aspect of his life, has him set. He’s a fucking influencer, now.

Stan catches Kenny’s eye and lifts the six pack, which makes Kenny’s grin grow incrementally. He wiggles a bit, a happy dance that has his white tank top stretching tight across his chest as it moves with him. When he bends to confide something in a low voice to the computer, Stan catches a glimpse of his tattoo, a jagged Polynesian design wrapped over his shoulder that he picked up when he went native in Kauai.

The night everything went wrong – or right – Stan had his mouth on that tattoo, licking a line up Kenny’s spine and then working up to his throat. He stands very still in Kenny’s doorway and does his best not to think about it.

Minutes later, Kenny finishes up his vlog with a snappy, “Adios, dear viewers. Until my next death!”

Stan waits until he’s turned the camera off and then attempts at soft applause, followed by, “Christ, you’re weird.”

Kenny beams. “Stay normal in a place like this, and people start to wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“All sorts of things.” Kenny winks, and Stan wonders if it’s an invite, shameless flirting, or just a tic he’s reading too much into. He offers Kenny a beer, which Kenny accepts easily, popping the top off with his teeth. Stan never picked up that trick, so he lets Kenny do the same to his.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, brother.” His expression is inscrutable. “I didn’t expect you to drop by.”

“Did I interrupt big plans?” Stan asks mildly. He sets the rest of the six pack on Kenny’s floor, and tries to assume the nonthreatening posture of someone who didn’t barge in uninvited.

Kenny buys it. He chuckles and says, “I dunno. I was thinking I’d watch the Bachelor and get Tucker to blow me.”

“It’s Friday,” Craig yells from his own bedroom, clearly eavesdropping. “That means it’s your turn.”

“Ignore him. He’s just scared of my monster cock,” Kenny says blithely, like Stan doesn’t recall exactly how big Kenny is. But he must remember, because when Stan doesn’t say anything, he shifts uneasily and adds, “Also, he’s still got like, a planet-size boner for Tweek.”

The apartment walls are very, very thin. Craig calls back, “Do not, dickwad!”

“Then stop stalking him!” Kenny hollers back.

There’s stilted quiet, and then, “I don’t- _what_ \- why would you- fuck off, McCormick.”

“You’re still blowing me later.”

The announcement is greeted with sullen silence.

Stan rolls his eyes. Tweek and Craig broke up practically a century ago. Tweek is _married_ and everything. But Craig’s never done well with change.

“He likes to play coy, but truth is, dude fucks everything that moves,” Kenny confides, seemingly oblivious that it’s what everyone says about him.

“That’s unsanitary.”

Mournfully, Kenny agrees, “Especially for the sheep.”

“Poor sheep.”

Craig doesn’t pipe in to object to their bestiality jokes, so Stan figures they’ve earned some modicum of privacy. He sips his beer and eyes Kenny’s computer. “How’s business?”

“Booming. Never underestimate the bloodlust of the interwebs.” He swivels towards the super classy set up of futon, rickety floor lamp, and laptop propped on a cardboard box, sweeping his palm across this, his kingdom. “Take a seat, man. Let’s catch up.”

Very, very aware of the fact that he and Kenny would be sitting close together on that bed, Stan stays standing. He notices his hat, discarded on top of a pile of dirty clothes, and toes it with his boot. “I’m good here.”

Kenny arches one blond eyebrow. “Alright. How was school?”

“I wish people wouldn’t ask it like that.”

“The trials and tribulations of a grown ass adult in high school.”

Stan snorts. “ _School_ is fine. We lost half our student body a few days back, but no one on the team.”

“That’s a win.”

Shaking his head, Stan drawls, “It’s something. We should’ve moved away when we had the chance.”

“There’s still time,” Kenny counters, pointing the lip of his beer towards Stan. “Head out to California, meet a nice girl?”

Stan shudders. “I don’t like California. Last time I hit up San Diego, I got sunburned on my-“

“Oh, I remember,” Kenny hoots. “And your mom had to rub aloe on-“

“ Don’t remind me.” Stan suppresses a full body quiver, but it’s mostly laughter. He was such a dumbass when he was a kid.

Hell, he’s not much better now.

“I should move to California, then,” Kenny declares. “Get some footage, meet a celebrity. Maybe I’ll make a sex tape. Feature it on the site or something.”

Stan nods along, wondering if there’s any way he could star in it.

It’s the wrong move, on a lot of levels.

Kenny takes his wordless acceptance as an insult, easy stance turning rigid again. “Nah, nevermind. I bet no one wants to see that.”

“See what?” Stan asks, bemused by the sudden shift.

“My sex tape,” Kenny enunciates.

“Uh. I- I mean,” Stan flounders for something more eloquent to say.

Coolly, Kenny inquires, “You okay?”

It’s a trap. Stan knows it’s a trap. He tries to pretend he doesn’t:

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Gee, Stan. I wonder.” Kenny props his hands on his hips, beer bottle dangling by his index finger and thumb. “Maybe because every time I make a sex joke you look acutely uncomfortable?”

Oops. Caught out.

Stan slumps, trying, “I’m not... _uncomfortable_.”

“Please,” Kenny snaps, abruptly incandescent with rage. “Whenever I talk about sex, you freak out. You’ve acted like this for years. Since-“

“Since you fucked me,” Stan finishes quietly, because Kenny’s clearly unwilling to.

“Right, sure.” Kenny waves it off, as if this formative moment in Stan’s life was insignificant to him. “You gotta know, if I’d realized it was going to make things so agonizingly stunted between us for all eternity I wouldn’t have done it.”

Evidently, he thinks it’s what Stan wants to hear.

Evidently, he doesn’t know anything about Stan.

“ _Ouch_.”

“What?”

“What?” Stan asks, outraged.

“Yes, what? I thought that’s what you were waiting for all this time. An apology for your first big gay experience!”

“I don’t want an apology, Jesus Christ, Kenny.”

“Then what?” Kenny crosses his arms, irritated with himself, and with Stan, and with this whole conversation, from the look on his face. “You’ve had a stick up your ass after I was up there for years. I never know what to say or do around you anymore. And I want my buddy back.”

His _buddy_.

Stan can’t hide his disappointment. He doesn’t bother trying.

“See?” Kenny demands, absolutely electric in his fury. “Even that made you shut down. I’ve been tiptoeing around this and trying to fix it, but I don’t know, man. I don’t know what you want!”

The words reverb against the thin walls of Kenny’s bedroom.

It’s an opening, if Stan’s ever heard one. “I want _you_ , you moron!”

Kenny’s mouth gapes open, stunned.

“You-“

Stan taps him gently on the chin. “You’re going to catch flies. Or cockroaches. Or whatever the hell else is in this apartment.”

Kenny shakes his head, jolting Stan’s hand away.

“Why would you want me?” He is astounded by the very concept, wide, pale blue eyes and a creased forehead. “You’re a freaking Boy Scout.”

“I quit scouts.”

“You know what I mean, Stan. You’re white picket fences. I’m...”

“Pretty incredible,” Stan tells him, to halt whatever negative thing Kenny is about to say about himself.

It doesn’t work.

“Unpredictable. And unstable. I spend half the year communing with grave dirt.”

Stan shrugs. “There’s nothing you can tell me that’s going to change how I feel. I’ve known you my entire life. And I like you.”

It’s freeing to finally admit it out loud, even when Craig unabashedly yells, “You gay fuck,” from the other room.

Hypocrite.

“Stan.” For the first time, Kenny sounds lost. Like he has no idea what the next step is.

Stan understands that doesn’t bode well for him.

His heart sinks.

Kenny says, “I love you.”

That’s all Stan wants. He isn’t interested in the rest.

Except Kenny continues, “You’re one of my besties. But you and me? We’d never work.”

The words echo in Stan’s ears. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. They were supposed to drink beer and jeer at sports. Not rock the foundations of Stan’s entire universe.

“Said like a man who won’t give us a chance.”

It’s petty and ugly. It’s straight from the friendzone handbook. And Stan can’t help it.

Kenny replies, “I don’t have to. Us, being friends. That’s the most important thing in the world to me.”

“Kenny, think about it-“

“No,” Kenny says, as firmly as he ever says anything. “We’d screw it up. _I’d_ screw it up. And I’m not willing to do that. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Stan says sadly. He shoves his hands deep in his jeans pockets, clenching his fingers into fists. “Keep the beer. You’ll need it to blow Craig. I don’t know what the clap tastes like, but it can’t be great.”

“Hey!” Craig yelps, “Don’t bring me into your lover’s spat.”

“Fuck you,” Stan calls back, tired of Craig Tucker, and Kenny, and his own feelings. To Kenny, he reiterates, “Fuck you both.”

He grabs his hat, turns around, and stalks out the door.

* * *

 

This is the part where things get awkward. This is the part where Stan begins an Epic Mope.

It’s his go-to maneuver when things don’t turn out right, and it’s never let him down.

And alright, it’s not the most mature move. He sits, sullenly, through group hangs at Raisins and online gaming sessions, speaking when spoken to, wallowing the rest of the time.

His coaching style turns rougher, closer to taunting, and when he makes a Freshman cry, the principal has to give him a stern talking to and a day off. Stan bullies Clyde into staying home and making him French toast, and they spend the rest of the day watching crap Syfy movies about three-story tall kittens and self-aware roombas.

Cartman and Kyle alternate between calling Stan a pussy and trying to shake him out of it, and Kenny never touches the elephant in the room. He exchanges pleasantries with Stan, when he’s around and Stan exchanges them back.

Because he doesn’t cut Kenny out of his life. He’s an ass, not an asshole.

Besides, it’s hard to avoid anyone in a town that’s barely five blocks long.

Which is where the real trouble starts.

* * *

 

He runs into Karen McCormick in the literal sense that she jabs her fist into his shoulder on a Saturday afternoon. He’s sitting outside one of the trendy restaurants that come and go with the seasons in South Park, a seafood place with a French twist.

A striped umbrella protects diners from gently falling drizzle, and space heaters are placed at intervals all across the patio. Kyle is waxing rhapsodic about hypothermia, not-so-subtly angling to go inside, when it happens.

“Ow!” Stan complains, rubbing his shoulders. “Karen? What the heck was that for?”

“Whatever you did to Kenny.” Karen crosses her arms, unimpressed with the way that Stan’s eyes are watering. She hits hard. “Fix it.”

“I-“ Stan begins, but he doesn’t know how to end. “I didn’t do anything to Kenny.”

“Bullshit.” Kyle is eyeing Stan with slow calculation, while Karen glowers, her pack of well-perfumed friends emanating solidarity behind her. She orders him to, “Fix it, Marsh.”

Her group backs out of the courtyard as one, while Stan’s cheeks grow increasingly rosy with shame.

“Dude,” he says. “Not cool.”

“At all,” Kyle agrees. Then, “Stan.”

Shit.

Proceeding with his Serious Business voice, the one he mostly uses on Ike or Cartman when they’re up to no good, Kyle asks, “What’s going on with you and Kenny?”

“Nothing,” Stan squeaks out, in what he tries to believe is a very convincing manner.

“Nothing,” Kyle repeats, absolutely unfooled.

“Yeah, man. Nothing.”

“Why don’t you try answering that again?” He suggests gently. “This time with one hundred percent less crap?”

“It’s offensive that you don’t believe me.”

“It’s offensive that you’re this bad at lying. You’ve had over a quarter century to practice.”

The rain hushes against the canvas umbrella, and the heaters hum with a low electric sound. Stan’s pulse is racing, the same way it does whenever he feels trapped.

He hates keeping things from Kyle.

Reluctantly, Stan confesses, “I like him, okay? Like, really like him.”

Immediately, Kyle’s expression melts. “Oh. _Stan_.”

“I know. It’s a monumentally bad idea on my part.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“He can’t commit to anything. In the whole world.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Then why are you looking at me like you have to tell me you ran over Sparky?” Stan shouts, bounding off his chair and throwing up his hands. The other diners are staring, now. “I know what I’m into, okay?”

Kyle’s lips thin, the way they often do when he’s suppressing a full on rage blackout. “Do you? Do you actually? Because it sounds to me like you’re not giving Kenny any credit at all.”

That stops Stan’s irritation in his tracks. “What?”

Seething now, Kyle crosses his arms. “Kenny commits to lots of things. Us, for one. For twenty something years now.”

Stan swallows. “He as good as said he doesn’t want me, Ky.”

“As good as, or he said the words, _I don’t want you Stan_? Because there’s a helluva lot of distance in meaning there.”

“I know what I heard.” Stan insists stubbornly.

“Or you’re taking the easy route, because you always take the easy route. It’s a Stan Marsh classic.”

“Wait, are we still talking about Kenny?”

“What else would we be talking about?” Kyle asks, a bitter edge to his words that gives away the lie. “Kenny is easy. You want to date him? Just give him sex on the regular until he figures out you’ve basically moved in.”

“I’m not going to trick him into it!”

“Why not?” Kyle asks, but then he cracks a grin, fury melting away. “I’m only saying it’s an option.”

“Okay. So.” Stan shoves his hands deep in his pockets, heartbeat irregular in his chest. “What are you not saying?”

Kyle drops his gaze, ginger lashes fanning across creamy, freckled skin. “You chose him.”

“ _Kyle_.”

“No. I mean you have every right to be with whoever you want. But you chose _him_.” His voice cracks a bit. “It was never going to be me.”

Stan’s stomach does a weird gymnastics routine. He can’t figure out how to respond, because the truth is…

Kyle started this.

They were sixteen when he came out, to a fuck ton of ridicule and a pride party, given by Sheila.

It was one of the most courageous things Stan had ever witnessed. The only other out and proud gay kids in their school were Tweek and Craig, who’d been together since grade school and hardly even counted. Most people forgot they were even queer until they walked in on them making out in new and exciting locations.

Kyle, though, he was doing it alone. And he stood up to Cartman’s barrage of hate, to the slurs and the jokes that bordered on slurs. And Stan...felt something.

It was admiration, mixed with love.

And jealousy, too.

Unmitigated envy of how strong and brave Kyle was. Resentment that they weren’t doing this together, the way they did everything together.

Stan sees that, when he looks back.

He sees how resentful and lovelorn he was, the vague interest his teenage self hoarded close to the chest.

Maybe it’s something he would have acted on, if he hadn’t gone to that party.

If Kenny hadn’t walked up to him with his sloe gin grin and the kind of drunken swagger he’s branded as sexy.

If Stan hadn’t decided to give Kenny a try, to see what Kyle liked about guys, without any risk.

No commitment Kenny, always up for a good time.

Wow, had that backfired.

Stan takes a few steps back towards the table, splaying his hands on Kyle’s shoulders, thumbs splayed against the jut of his collarbone. “You’re everything to me, dude.”

“Not everything.” Kyle shifts, shrugging off his foul mood. “But I guess it wouldn’t be healthy if I was.”

They both snort, low and tense.

Kyle says, “If we can’t trick him into it, what if we went about it honestly?”

Stan blinks, palms still warm against Kyle’s skin and coat. “You want me to give him flowers and chocolate? Hit up a movie?”

Kyle laughs, earnestly this time. “Moses, you’re boring. I think we can be a little more creative than that.”

“I thought I was banned from creativity,” Stan retorts, wry.

“Only poetry.” Kyle says immediately, a dark look crossing over his face.

Stan holds up his hands in defeat. “I haven’t written a single stanza.”

“Damn right.”

“I think I have to run this gauntlet on my own, Ky. But I appreciate you wanting to mastermind my love life. And thanks. For listening.”

“Always.”

There’s a soft, red curl dangling over Kyle’s forehead, and normally, Stan wouldn’t hesitate to brush it away. They’ve always been like that - touchy feely, free.

But he recognizes that this isn’t the right moment. That without intending to, he really hurt his best friend.

Stan was careless, with Kyle.

It’s not the first time, and it probably won’t be the last, but somehow he thinks that this might be the worst.

Even as Kyle cracks more jokes about date ideas, and Stan settles back into his seat, Stan can see that he’s in pain.

That he had his heart set on Stan, even if he never said a word.

* * *

 

The party wasn’t particularly memorable – one in a long string of _good times_.

It colors Stan’s mind with the loud sound of drunken laughter, Tres Generaciones wetting his mouth and burning his throat.

He remembers clips and flashes, like the burnished gold of Kenny’s head bent close to the blazing red of Kyle’s, to the way Jimmy spat jokes to the tune of a rap. At one point, Token and Cartman belted out an acapella version of some old eighties song that made Stan’s ears feel like they were bleeding.

He escaped into the kitchen, searching for more tequila, and there was Kenny, pale knees peeking from frayed holes in his pants, swinging the bottle from his free hand while he dug around his pockets, searching for a beat-up carton of cigarettes. He dropped them when he saw Stan, a light, plasticky smack against the linoleum floor echoing between them.

“Shit,” Kenny’d said. “I’m s’posed to ‘ve quit.”

Tipsy, his voice was thick with his dad’s accent, a redneck-affect that rolled over Stan’s shoulders and curled lazily down his spine. He grinned, happy and drunk and pleased with the whole universe. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“My hero,” Kenny threw back his neck, cackling with unrestrained glee, and then hushed himself seconds later, a finger pressed tight to his lips. “Shhh, no, I’m too loud for secret-keeping.”

Stan stepped in close, cuffing a hand around the back of Kenny’s neck. “How drunk are you?”

“Not drunk enough.” Kenny lifted the bottle of tequila high, his skin warm against Stan’s palms, and asked, “Shots?”

“I like shots.”

He remembers that the tequila burned when he swallowed it down, rock salt sticking in his teeth.

He was gasping a little, swallowed wrong, or something. Kenny noticed.

All cocky smile and confidence, with a lime clenched between his lips, sucking sweet, he leaned towards Stan. With a single flick of his tongue he’d flipped the slice outward and pressed their mouths together.

There was a brush of wet, hot skin and sour citrus.

Stan took it, trying to quench all that fire he’d swallowed down, with lime juice and Kenny, Kenny, who pulled back too quick.

Except when Stan spit the rind out, Kenny was watching him, up in Stan’s space. “Amateur.”

“Am not.”

“You’re a complete novice.”

“No, I-“

Stan has no idea what he was. There must have been some witty retort, or at least a suitable comeback. But Stan doesn’t remember that part. What’s clearer, _crystalized_ , is the way Kenny wrapped his hands around Stan’s face then.

The way he reeled him in for a kiss, hot and deep, and no lime required.

Stan melted into Kenny’s touch, the sloppy, liquored taste of their mouths. He was holding Kenny’s hips, pressing his tight against the kitchen counter, and Kenny told him, “Follow me.”

So he did, stumbling up the stairs with low, lazy mirth, calling each other names and grabbing each other’s asses in equal measure, until they fell into somebody’s room. There was red wallpaper, and a stained glass objet d'art, like a bird.

Stan only saw it in flashes before Kenny barreled back into him, interest renewed. He lost his shirt, somewhere between Kenny mouthing red marks against his neck and groping the shape of Kenny’s biceps. And it was only when he’d relieved Kenny of his own, heated skin against his own, that he thought to ask, “No, hey, Kenny – is this okay?”

Kenny’s long fingers paused on the buckle of Stan’s belt, calluses thick along his palms. “S’okay with me. Is it okay with you?”

His hand brushed against the throb of Stan’s cock then, deliberate and teasing, and _fuck_.

“It’s great. I’m great. You’re great,” Stan babbled, near incoherent.

He hadn’t guessed that this, any part of this, could feel so amazing, so frenetic, so much like lightning strikes.

“Then Stan,” Kenny whispered, licking across Stan’s lips with tiny, flickering licks, hotter than flame. His voice was startlingly clear, and much soberer than Stan felt, when he pronounced, “I’m going to fuck you now.”

And despite everything, Stan lets him peel the denim from his hips, and the boxers from his from his thighs. He lets him trace his mouth across his chest and abdomen, and the jut of his hipbone.

He lets Kenny remake him, and Stan is never, ever the same again.

* * *

 

He wakes up, hard and panting, half out of his mind with want.

Without even thinking about it, Stan gropes in the dark for his phone, dialing the first number on his speed dial, “Hey. Where are you?”

Grumpily, Kyle says, “At my house. Like people normally are at – four a.m., holy fuck dude. What is wrong with you?”

“A lot of things,” Stan replies, already shoving his legs into sweats. “I’m coming over.”

Kyle groans, long and loud, but doesn’t say anything sensible about how they both have work in the morning. “My window’s unlocked.”

“Really? You’re not going to come down and let me in?”

“You’re the one who woke me up at _four a.m_., Stan. I’m not leaving this bed until I have to. I’m cocooned.”

“But-“

“ _Cocooned_ ,” Kyle emphasizes. 

“Fine. But work on being a butterfly, or whatever. I need you to start charging up that brain of yours.”

Curiosity overtakes Kyle’s crankiness. “Why?”

“Changed my mind. I need your help.”

He can hear Kyle’s head thud back against his pillow. “Help, sure. Obviously. Help I can do.”

“You’re the greatest.”

“Dickhead. Bring coffee, or I riot.”

The line goes dead, and in the quiet Kyle’s left behind, Stan presses the heel of his hand over the thundering beat of his heart. He won’t take the easy route, this time.

He won’t give up on Kenny.


	2. Chapter 2

Kyle is one hundred percent asleep when Stan climbs through his window, the way he used to when they were teenagers with curfews, rather than adults with responsibilities. Stan waves a thermos full of fancy espresso under his nose – one of the perks of living with Clyde is that all their appliances are high tech and shiny.

Swatting at him, Kyle rolls over, so Stan resorts to drastic measures. He sets the thermos on Kyle’s windowsill, and jabs his thumbs deep into Kyle’s ribs.

“ _Agh_ – why?!” Kyle shrieks, coming awake with much flailing and fanfare.

Stan slaps his hand over Kyle’s protests. “You’re going to wake your parents.”

Kyle glares daggers at him, moss-green eyes sharp, even in the early twilight. When Stan pulls back, he spits, “Asshat.”

“And a hearty good morning to you.” Stan sweeps up the coffee he discarded. “I brought refreshments.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Kyle makes grabby hands at the thermos, and Stan hands it over without complaint. He settles himself cross-legged on the same, familiar old comforter Kyle’s owned since high school.

“I need your wisdom.”

Kyle scowls. “I want you to know that my wisdom works better by the light of the daystar.”

“But you’re such a kind and benevolent soul, to grant me an audience before the sun rises.” Stan rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Kyle, you know this would’ve kept me up the rest of the night.”

“Oh, I mean if you would have lost out on your beauty rest.” Kyle’s clutching the coffee tightly between his palms, wearing the same, familiar annoyed face he sports every morning, angry at the sky for lightening and the rooster for crowing.

To be fair, Stan might’ve rushed the process, this morning. “I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve waited. But I’m here now…”

Kyle buries his head in his arms. “Right, yep. Plans. Plans for Kenny. Plans for you, and Kenny.”

“Whoa. Nothing too complicated, alright? Help – that’s all I need.”

“You need a little bit more than a nudge in the right direction, Stan.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“How all the great sentences start,” Stan retorts, frowning.

“Jerkwad.” Kyle nudges him with his shoulder, solid and affectionate. “This is going to be harder than you think.”

“Why?”

“Erm. It’s only…” Kyle shoves a hand through the wild thicket of his curls and mutters, “Don’t hate me for saying this, but you’ve never had to work for sex in your life.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stan whistles, bristling with sarcasm. “Then why haven’t I had any in a year?”

“You – wait, a year? Seriously?”

“So seriously,” Stan replies, solemn as he can be.

“Wow. Woooow. _Wow_.”

“I get it, Kyle.”

“No, I’m not judging, but- wow.”

“Kyle!”

“It’s only been five months for me,” he volunteers.

“Whoopee for you. Can we move on?”

“Okay, sure, yes,” Kyle agrees, clearly stuck on Stan’s year of zero loving. Outside, the pre-dawn sky casts a purple-blue cast over his face, obscuring the freckles at the bridge of his nose. “I’ve thought it over, and the best way to get Kenny desperate for sex is to cut off his main source of it.”

“Great.” Stan winces, fingertips digging into the soft fluff of Kyle’s comforter. “So we kill everyone on earth.”

Calmly, Kyle flicks him on the nose and replies, “I was thinking something _a touch_ less drastic.”

“Such as?”

“Craig.”

“We’re killing Craig?”

“We’re distracting Craig.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“Leave it up to me.” The sun limns the mountains in the distance with gold, and a wicked tilt limns Kyle’s grin in a way that is very, very worrisome.

“You’re not going to maim him, are you?”

“What? No! Jesus, dude, I’m not Cartman.”

“Then what?” Stan insists.

Kyle huffs and says, “Craig’s social circle consists of Kenny. That’s it. He plays video games all day, fucks Kenny at night, and occasionally makes time to stalk his ex over at the Tweek Brothers.”

“He has other friends,” Stan says doubtfully, picturing Craig’s bony frame – the soft, dark sweep of his eyelashes and the broad shape of his shoulders. “Clyde’s been trying to get him out of that apartment for ages.”

“Fine, whatever, Craig’s social circle consists of Kenny, Clyde, Token, and the living ghost of Tweek Tweak. That doesn’t change my point.”

“Which is?”

“That all he needs is a little…attention. Then, viola! Craig’s got other Friday night plans, and there’s no more convenient booty calls for our best buddy.”

Stan lets the plan really settle over him and decides, “I’m not sure about this.”

“Which part?”

“Any of it. It sounds like you’re going to seduce Craig Tucker–“ Kyle beams and Stan shudders, “ –for morally reprehensible reasons, _and_ then I’m supposed to leverage Kenny’s blue balls?”

“Yes.” Kyle nods the affirmative. “That’s the gist of my plan.”

“Dude, I don’t want to bribe Kenny into sleeping with me.”

Kyle opens his mouth.

“No!” Stan exclaims. “I don’t want to coerce him, either!”

“Look. You’re not bribing Kenny. You’re...providing an easy alternative during a dry spell.”

“Calling me easy isn’t a compliment, dude.”

“Okay. I’m saying this for your own good, Stan. I think Kenny likes you.”

Stan snorts in patent disbelief.

“I think Kenny likes you so much that it freaks him out. I think he wants to jump your bones, but he’s scared of losing you, so he needs an excuse. We’re going to give him one.”

“You don’t know-“

“I do. I do know, Stan. I’ve been in Kenny’s shoes.”

Stan swallows. Unable to address the raw emotion in Kyle’s words, he asks, “Why would he be scared of losing me?”

“Kenny’s track record with relationships isn’t exactly stellar,” Kyle answers gently, not missing the redirect. “And he cares about you. You have to realize that.”

“I do.” Stan hates everything about this conversation, including but not limited to the traces of pain in Kyle’s voice.

It’d be so much easier if he could go back, erase that night with Kenny so many years ago, and be that kid with an inkling of a crush on his _other_ best friend. But easy or not, he doesn’t _want_ to go back.

He doesn’t want to forget the way that night made him feel.

Kyle says, “If Kenny’s really, honestly, truly not into this, he won’t take the bait. You said it before – he has options. He has an entire world of options. If he really doesn’t like you, or even if he does, but genuinely thinks it’s better to stay friends, he’ll go for someone else. Without a second’s thought. So what does it hurt to give this a go?”

“It might hurt a whole hell of a lot,” Stan retorts, because he can’t think of a better, more contrary thing to say.

Kyle grunts, exasperated. “Try the plan, Stan. If Kenny shoots you down, then I’m wrong and we’ll put this thing to rest. I’ll owe you a beer and a tub of ice cream. We can watch rom coms, while Kenny bangs some girl’s brains out. But if I’m right, which _I so fucking am_ , then you have to ask yourself why that is.”

Stan can’t argue, and Kyle sees that. “You’re not always right.”

“Am too.” Kyle knocks their knees together, across the comforter. “Feel better?”

“Not really. I feel like this entire thing is going to backfire.”

“Why? Tell me you don’t really think Kenny’s that much of a manwhore, that he’d mess with your feelings because he’s hard up? Even when he could get, um, anyone else he wants?”

“No,” Stan admits.

“Then he rejects you and we fail, or he doesn’t. And if he doesn’t turn you away, then maybe, just maybe, that means something else. Something more.”

Stan can’t imagine what _something more_ , with Kenny, would entail.

“The only way this backfires is if you’re not serious about him,” Kyle says. “In which case I can and will punch you.”

“I’m serious,” Stan hastens to assure him. “But isn’t forcing his hand is a dick move?”

“Oh, it’s _absolutely_ a dick move. But Kenny needs to face his fears, and this is going to work and you’re both going to be disgustingly happy, so I will not feel even a little bit bad about moving this whole process along.”

“You’re a good friend, Kyle.”

“I’m a spectacular friend.”

“I remain anti you seducing Craig.”

Kyle shrugs. “Gonna shoot my shot either way.”

“Why?”

“There are like, eight gay guys in this entire town. I’d been holding out for...uh. Not important. But now that I’m blissfully single and fancy free, Craig’s got nice abs. And his personality isn’t completely repulsive.”

“When did you see Craig’s abs?”

“Visiting Kenny,” Kyle says, albeit apologetically. “The two of them are shameless.”

“Fantastic,” Stan sulks.

“Hey, you want this, you need to get used to a life of uninhibited exhibitionism.”

“My life is terrible.”

“Your life is the actual definition of hashtag blessed, so get it together. Phase one starts tomorrow.”

“Remind me again what phase one is?”

Kyle smiles, all teeth. “I dig my tightest jeans out and stop by Craig’s daily stalking session for some fresh Sumatra.”

 _Eurgh_.

* * *

 

Kyle’s way too into espionage.

He sends Stan multiple texts during his lunch break of poor Craig, staring longingly through the Tweek Brothers’ front window for a glimpse of his long lost love. Stan’s trying to concentrate on one of his Sophomore student’s poor excuses for missing practice – something about a sprained wrist, please – but his authority is undermined when he’s constantly checking his phone for Kyle’s updates.

More so, when he’s at afternoon practice, and Kyle appears on the field like a wild tiger, waving his hands at Stan and shouting, “We have a date.”

Every single football player there stops, nods like this makes perfect sense to them, and then goes about the game.

Stan jogs over to Kyle and mutters, “They all think we’re together now.”

Kyle crosses his arms and beams, supremely unconcerned. He’s wearing scrubs under his jacket, clearly playing ill-advised hooky from work. But that’s the least of Stan’s concerns right now. By way of greeting, he says, “A date? That was fast.”

“I am a champion flirt,” Kyle says proudly. “And also a catch.”

“A catch?”

“I’m a doctor, Stan.”

“But you live with your parents.”

“ _A doctor_.”

“Huh. Never thought about it.”

“Don’t remind me. Anyway, give me a week, and then phase two will be a go.”

“A week?”

“I’m not sleeping with him on the first date.”

“That’s not-“ Stan colors, the idea of Kyle and sex and Craig-having-sex-with-Kyle an embarrassing jumble in his head. Flustered, he tries, “He might not want to be exclusive. Especially after a week.”

“First of all, I’m a hot commodity, jackass. I resent the implication that I’m not.”

“Erm-“

“Second, he doesn’t have to.”

“What?”

That mischievous, Machiavellian grin teases at Kyle’s mouth. “I’m the one that needs to fall, and fall hard.”

“For Craig?”

“Why not? I like him,” Kyle says, and Stan can tell he’s not kidding. He keeps one eye on the field and the way his quarterback is fumbling a play while Kyle explains, “Maybe one day I’ll _like him_ , like him. Or this will be a complete disaster. Either way, in a week, I’ll tell Kenny that I do.”

“That you like Craig.”

“Yes.”

“And then Kenny will...”

“Stop sleeping with him. He,” Kyle taps Stan’s forehead. “Is also a good friend.”

“That’s sneaky.”

“Yes.”

“And manipulative.”

“You’re not wrong.”

The quarterback eats turf, grass spraying in a wide arc in the air, and Stan sighs. “I’m having another crisis of conscience.”

“Well, quit it.”

“What if you end up not liking Craig? What if you break his heart?” Stan asks, panicking.

“Then he and I will find that out together. The way people in relationships do.”

This is so humiliating. He’s going to have a panic attack, right here, in front of all his kids.

“It’ll be my fault.”

“No. It’ll be mine. Geez, chill.”

“I can’t. You’re going to sleep with Craig and find out he’s awful and everything will be ruined.”

“Uh, he can’t be bad in bed, or Kenny wouldn’t bother.” Kyle hums, clearly looking forward to testing the hypothesis.

Stan pales. “Gross.”

“Says you. As for the rest? Have a little faith. I deserve to be happy too.”

“I’m not saying you don’t! I’m- it’s- just- _Craig_.”

“Tall, dark, handsome, and self-righteous. My type,” Kyle concludes, clicking his tongue with satisfaction. He shoves both hands in his parka pockets, the gesture so familiar that the two of them could still be seniors, dressed in lettermans and waiting for the Homecoming game. “I’ve gotta get back to work before someone sticks a scalpel somewhere delicate-“

“Does that happen?”

“It’s Hell’s Pass,” Kyle replies, inscrutable. “All kinds of things happen.”

Stan crosses himself, “Here’s to our health for all eternity, then.”

“You better hope so.” Kyle cracks a smile and slaps Stan’s flank. “Get your head back in the game. Rah rah, and all that.”

“You-“ Stan sputters, keenly aware that his football players are watching the exchange and jumping to even more conclusions. “You did that on purpose.”

Kyle flutters his eyelashes. “Maybe afterwards, you can give me your class ring.”

“I hate you so much right now.”

Shrugging, Kyle begins walking off the field. “Remember. A week!”

“I still don’t think this will work!” Stan yells after him.

“I’m a genius.” Kyle winks, jogging backwards towards his mom’s car. “And a catch!”

* * *

 

Stan’s not enamored of the idea of waiting a week, but it flies by.

He’s subbing for Mrs. Olinsky, which puts him up close and personal with more of the school than ever before. Between history questions that he, quite frankly, answers out of his ass, practice, and putting together actual lesson plans, he rarely leaves school before dusk. His days are interspersed with texts about Craig, which is by far the oddest thing Kyle has ever put him through, spaced between students worried about the upcoming all-grades dance, or making varsity next year, or whether Catullus was indeed the pinnacle of fuckboys.

Stan isn’t even sure what a fuckboy is. He has to look it up on the internet – one of his more embarrassing searches.

Right after, _who is Catullus_?

He also gets a few winks and nudges from players on his team who are downright convinced that Stan’s dating _the hot doctor_ , and that’s its own kind of twisted.

So by the time that Friday night rolls around, all Stan wants to do is strip down to his boxers and binge shitty TV with Clyde.

Who surpasses all his expectations by having a date.

“I don’t get it, man. When do you have time to meet people?”

“I’m social,” Clyde protests, and it’s objectively true. “Met a girl in my office.”

“Well. Okay. That doesn’t sound like a sexual harassment suit in progress.”

“I’m not a sleazeball,” Clyde replies, mortified. “ _She_ asked _me_ out.”

“Nice, man. Where’re you taking her?”

Clyde hesitates before confessing, “Pour Decisions.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Clyde asks, looking like he regrets ever bringing any of it up.

“Sure. Oh.”

Clyde’s such an idiot. Back in high school, he bombed so hard with Bebe, and so publicly, he’s scared to try again. Even though it’s clear to everyone except Clyde that he wants to.

Clyde asks, “Is this a good oh, or a bad oh?”

“It’s an, oh, that’s a baaaaad idea,” Stan tells him. “But you knew that already.”

“Fuck off,” Clyde says, but with very little ire. He’s perfectly attuned to how bad an idea it is. “Bebe will be fine with it.”

“With you parading your new girlfriend in front of her? Fairly certain she owns poison.”

“It’s a date! No one’s anyone’s girlfriend.”

“Whatever you say.” Stan holds his hands up in the universal gesture for _no offense_. But inside, he’s fairly certain Clyde should carry some poison antidotes along on that date.

He refrains from saying so, and Clyde finishes adjusting his blue and white striped tie. “What are you up to? Night in?”

“I like a life of leisure.”

“By the way,” Clyde’s grin falters. “Did you, uh. Had you heard about…um.”

“Spit it out, Donovan.”

“Kyle. And Craig. Craig and Kyle. They’re an item, now.” Clyde is watching him like maybe he’ll find the news a devastating blow.

Stan blinks. “And this…worries you?”

“What? Of course not. I’m happy someone’s finally dragging Craig out of his hovel. But…”

“But?”

“I sort of thought you were holding out. You know, for Broflovski?”

“Jesus, dude.”

“Are you not?”

“No! Kyle’s my friend, Clyde.”

“He could be more than that, if you wanted.”

“I don’t. I very much do not.”

“Oh. Great. Then, uh, next week, you up for a double date with my new girl?”

“Maybe you should wait and see how the first one goes,” Stan replies dryly. “I hear not all women are immune to prussic acid.”

“Bebe’s not going to poison anyone. God!”

Stan lifts a shoulder in apology. “Pessimism’s second nature, dude. Sorry. I’m sure it’s gonna go great.”

Appeased, Clyde finishes getting ready. Once he’s snazzed up, it takes minimal effort to shove him out the door. After which, Stan sags back on their narrow couch and mutters, “He’s going to get himself killed.”

But that is not Stan’s problem. He queues up Netflix with the idea of wasting the next twelve hours on some comics-based show and a six pack of beer. That plan goes moderately well for him, until around midnight, when he gets a text from Kenny.

_Craig and Kyle?!?!?!?!?!?!_

It’s the first time Kenny’s taken the initiative to text Stan, directly, in close to a month. They’ve spoken in person, and in the group chat ruled primarily by Cartman’s bitching about Wendy, but outside of public forums, Kenny’s played aloof.

 _Guess so_ , Stan types back, vacillating back and forth on whether to send it until his fingers decide for him.

Immediately, a gray bubble filled with ellipses appear, followed by, _thanks for the heads up_.

 _Crimping your style?_ Stan writes, petty as can be. He stretches his legs over the arm of the couch and tries not to feel anything like hope.

Which is good, because Kenny types back. _No. Not at all_.

And that’s the last Stan hears from him for a few days.

* * *

 

“Your plan isn’t working.”

“My plan is working perfectly.”

“Yeah, at getting _you_ laid.” He can essentially hear Kyle smiling over the phone, which no. Stan hastily adds, “I do not want details.”

“You’re missing out.”

“I’m strangely cool with that.” Stan inhales deeply, the icy mountain air cooling the frustration that’s boiling over inside him. “Your plan still sucks.”

“Give it time to breathe,” Kyle replies, and over the phone the hospital intercom blares something about a _Code Persimmon_ , which sounds made up.

Stan chooses not to ask.

He props his ankles on his desk and glares at a mournful freshman clutching a recent pop quiz close to their chest, hovering in the doorframe. To Kyle, he says, “So your plan is like a fine wine.”

“A pinot noir,” Kyle agrees.

“I hate wine.”

“Yeah, you’re more of a beer person. Maybe think of it as cheese?”

“In that it stinks?”

“Har-de-har-har. Look, Kenny’s getting antsy. I saw him yesterday-“

“Yesterday? Where did you see Kenny, yesterday?”

Patiently, Kyle answers, “At his apartment.”

The implications are horrific.

“Forget I asked.”

“ _The point is_ , he’s not seeing anyone else. At least, not yet.”

“Encouraging,” Stan says in a slow, sarcastic drawl.

“Don’t be an ass,” Kyle commands. “I’m dragging Craig to Pour Decisions tonight-“

“How’d you manage that?”

“He’s not a cave dweller,” Kyle says, with a note of genuine defensiveness. “He’s a professional gamer.”

“I maintain that that’s not a job.”

“And _I_ maintain that you’re jealous of that job. He’s got skills, man.”

“So…it’s going okay?” Stan tries, wanting Kyle to understand how much he wants him to be happy.

It kills Stan a little bit that he can’t wave a magic wand and give Kyle everything he wants. Especially when one of those things is Stan, himself.

Maybe Kyle gets that, because there’s a hush over the line. The Code Persimmon alert blares out against Stan’s ear again, and he wonders whether it means the same thing as a Code Red, or if it’s more involved, like fire-breathing dragons. It’s in the middle of that thought that Kyle reiterates firmly, “My plan is working perfectly.”

So he really is okay.

It was perhaps a bit arrogant to think he wouldn’t be. Kyle knows his own mind, and always lands on his feet. Stan allows himself a small smile and says, “Glad to hear it.”

“Don’t get weepy on me, Marsh. We’re going to Pour Decisions, tonight, and we’re bringing Kenny along.”

“Third wheeling? He must be _delighted_.”

“He is, because I’m his best friend, and I’m amazing company.” There’s a challenge in Kyle’s words, one that Stan does not dare to rise to. “And he’ll be even more delighted once you show up.”

“You’ve watched too many sit-coms.”

“I’ve watched exactly the right amount of sit-coms. Your skepticism is unwarranted.”

“I like my skepticism. It keeps me warm at night.”

“Maybe Kenny will keep you warm at night if you shut up and follow my lead.”

“I can’t deny that I’m intrigued,” Stan answers carefully, watching the freshman edge up to his door again. The kid needs to grow a backbone already.

“Follow that intrigue. Follow it to bliss, dude.”

Grouchily, Stan gestures for the freshman to come in. “Ky, I’ve got a student meeting. Text me when, and I’ll show.”

“Rad. This is going to go off without a hitch. You’ll see.”

“Uh huh.” Stan hangs up and turns to do his job, despite his disbelief hanging thick in the air.

* * *

 

Pour Decisions on a Wednesday night is surprisingly packed, in part because Bebe’s given the floor to a local ladies’ book club.

Stan’s own mom is seated at the far booth, in the middle of a heated debate about femme fatales. He waves at her as he saunters by, but all he gets in reply is a distracted finger wiggle. Nothing comes between his mother and morally gray, strong female characters with murder on their minds.

Stan laughs softly, sidling up to the bar, where Kyle, Craig, and Kenny are perched on stools, elbows propped on the semi-sticky counter. Bebe’s fussing around with the register, but in a way that makes it really obvious she’s actually eavesdropping on their friends.

To be fair, Kenny’s in the middle of regaling everyone with some high energy details of his most recent video, a short that involves Kenny, a train, and a very predictable ending that he somehow twists to sound funny. Kenny has a gift for turning the macabre into jokes.

Stan spends an invisible moment captivated by the wildfire thrill of it, of Kenny, at his most vibrant.

But he can’t do it for long, for a whole list of reasons, including the creepiness factor. So, Stan throws his arms around Kyle’s shoulders instead, nuzzling into his neck, and it’s like Kyle instinctively recognizes it’s him. He doesn’t tense up, doesn’t do anything other than sink back into Stan’s hug.

Which is brief, because Craig is quick to snap, “Get your grubby hands off my boyfriend, Marsh.”

“Boyfriend?” Stan pulls back only enough to rest his palms on Kyle’s broad shoulders. He gives him and Craig his full attention – anything to avoid watching the way the backlit bar illuminates Kenny’s pale face. “Fancy. You guys are official now?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Kyle says serenely, while Craig insists, “Yes!”

Although Kyle’s smile turns soft, he’s _Kyle_. He fucks with Craig to the best of his ability. “You’ll have to ask me nicely.”

“Excuse you? Time’s running out Broflovski. Do you want all this-“ Craig gestures up and down his lanky body, while Kyle follows the movement with keen green eyes. “Or not?”

Primly, Kyle takes a sip of his beer and says, “I’ll think it over.”

“Think. It. _Over_?” Craig explodes, flailing.

Stan squeezes his fingers tightly into Kyle’s shoulders, trembling with laughter. He admires Kyle’s way with words, and patent ability to troll a guy into liking him even more.

He can almost see it, the way Craig’s tantrum is a manifestation of him falling more and more deeply in love. Kyle’s got him wrapped around his little finger. 

Masterful.

“ _Marsh_!”

Stan is rocked out of his quiet reflection by Bebe, who is now away from the register and also the physical incarnation of the _flames on my face_ gif.

Cautiously, he greets her. “Uh. Hi, Bebe.”

Kenny’s gaze seesaws back and forth between Bebe and Stan. “Dude, what did you do to her?”

It’s his first acknowledgement that Stan is even present. Jerk.

“I’m standing right here, dickhead.” Bebe pushes her mass of blonde curls off her forehead and juts her hip to the left. Then she jabs Stan right in the chest with both of her index fingers, emphasizing each word with a stab of her pointy red nails. “You. Tell. Clyde. He. Better. Not. Show. Up. Here. With _that tramp_. Again.”

“Um.”

“Don’t you _um_ me.”

“Clyde’s got a tramp?” Kenny hisses to Kyle, who bats him away with a whispered _not now_.

Craig doesn’t get the memo, because he helpfully replies, “Her name’s Linda.”

He really draws out the vowels of the ‘a’, singsonging it and enraging Bebe. “Yes! Her!”

“Um,” Stan says again. “Er.”

“Aren’t you going on a double date with them like, tomorrow?” Craig asks.

Fucker.

“It’s Friday,” Stan admits.

“You have a date?” Kenny asks, and stunned isn’t quite the word Stan would use to describe his expression, but it’s definitely close.

“You have a date?” Kyle echoes, and he’s a smidge closer to pissed. He leans back into Stan’s grip, peeking up at him from a mountain of red curls. “If you have a date, why the fuck am I-“

Stan claps his hand over Kyle’s mouth and tells Bebe, “I’ll get Clyde to reschedule. Somewhere nice.”

“Are you implying my bar isn’t nice?” Bebe asks, low and dangerous.

“No! No. Absolutely not. Your bar is, man, _wow_ , all bars should be this nice.”

“Lame,” Kyle supplies under his breath, his lips ghosting the skin of Stan’s arm.

Stan takes that as his cue to let go of his best friend and favorite safety net. He’s got two options of stools – next to Craig, or next to Kenny – because Kyle is sandwiched squarely between them. Somehow, Stan thinks that was orchestrated. Kyle is a cunning strategist when he wants to be.  

He slides onto the seat next to Kenny, keeping a respectable distance between them, or as much as he can in cramped quarters. He requests a beer from Bebe, who begrudgingly fetches one from the tap.

Kenny intones, “A date, huh?”

“I’ve got game,” Stan replies, taking a page from Kyle’s book.

Inscrutable, Kenny responds, “Sure,” and it’s all Stan can do not to read into it, to wonder if Kenny is honestly agreeing with him. Which is…a plateau of pathetic he had no idea he’d reached. He grabs his beer from Bebe and drinks half of it in a single swallow.

For a while, the night is every bit as much of a disaster as Stan expected, with Kenny rigid beside him, put off by Stan’s unexpected drop-in. But as the evening wears on, the tension bleeds out of him.

Somewhere between stories of his tightrope dances with death and Kyle’s gross hospital factoids, punctuated with Craig’s video game heroics, the atmosphere changes. Soon enough, Kenny is keeling into Stan’s side, thigh pressed against his under the bar top while he strains to talk across Kyle to Craig.

The low murmur of women nursing wine spritzers and talking books is the background music to their group’s louder, more impassioned speeches – about sports, about beer, about whether Kyle and Bebe actually ever fucked.

“I don’t know why any of you get any say in this,” Kyle complains. “I was _there_.”

“So was I,” Bebe drawls, reaching across the counter to flick Kyle on the nose. “And I can’t…quite…remember.”

“That is so rude,” Kyle splutters.

Craig places a protective arm around Kyle’s waist, and Stan and Kenny wince in tandem. “Don’t be a bitch, Bebe.”

“Don’t be a chauvinist pig, Craig. And chill, Kyle.” Bebe flashes a razor sharp grin. “I remember being your arm charm.”

“That’s a nice way to say fag hag,” Kenny remarks, at the same time as Kyle protests, “You make it sound like I was using you.”

Bebe’s teeth glow painfully white in the dim light, this utter mockery of a smile on her face. “Weren’t you? Just a little?”

“No! I had real feelings for you.”

“Maybe,” Bebe allows. She sucks in a breath, all gravitas. “But you only had eyes for Stan. Even then.”

For a half beat, everyone is quiet, barring the women in the back, with their wine and their dignity. Then, Kenny says, “Yep, that was awkward for everyone.”

“Back then?” Craig hisses at him, clearly unfamiliar with subtlety. “Or right now?”

Kyle, however, reaches across the bar, catching Bebe’s slim hand in his. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel that way. Really.”

Bebe visibly shakes off the mantle of her ire, back straightening. She grabs a bottle and pours a rocks glass of whiskey, then downs the lot. Mouth slippery with amber drops, she squeezes Kyle’s knuckles. “No. I shouldn’t have a said that. I’m not even mad at you. I’m mad at Clyde. And you.” She points at Stan. “I’m pissed at you.”

“Golden boy’s in trouble again,” Craig intones.

Kyle shoves his shoulder, but there’s no real power behind it. _Adorable_.

Or, it would be, if Stan wasn’t being skewered. “I already promised to have him reschedule!”

“I don’t believe you.”

Okay, fair. Stan can’t force Clyde to choose a different date spot, especially not when Clyde is only engaging in this faux office romance to inspire murderous intent in his ex-girlfriend.

And by the way Bebe is glaring at Stan, she’s definitely feeling a lot of murderous intent.

“I will! Somewhere nice!” Stan assures, with confidence he does not feel.

“Somewhere classy,” she corrects, eyes gleaming mean. “Like Pizza Hut.”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

Stan’s saved from any more desperate promises he’s not sure he can keep by one of the book club women, who requests another round of pinot grigio. Bebe sweeps up two bottles in each hand, necks dangling between her fingers, and bustles off to help the ladies out, jeans clinging tight to the curves of her ass.

Stan marvels, “She terrifies me. Increasingly. Every year.”  

“She doesn’t mean anything by it…But she’s got it bad for Clyde,” Kyle says, blinking, like he somewhat can’t believe Bebe is really, really over him. “Clyde, of all people.”

“Donovan’s got that big dick energy girls dig,” Craig observes, with the cool detachment of someone who is used to standing in Clyde Donovan’s shadow. Stan notices how he scoots closer to Kyle, like proximity will keep his brand new boyfriend from falling victim to Clyde’s rampant sex appeal. Even as he adds, “And like, legit. Clyde’s packing major heat.”

Kyle hides his head in his hands. “I…do not want to hear about how you know that.”

“He’s not wrong though,” Kenny agrees with a leer, bumping his fist against Kyle’s bicep.

And Stan doesn’t care that Clyde dated literally every girl they went to high school with. Stan doesn’t give a damn that Clyde apparently swings both ways, and experimented with Craig. He loves the guy, and more than that, he _likes_ him.

Clyde cooks him breakfast and buys him hangover food when he went too hard the night prior. Clyde listens to Stan bitch about his parents, and Kyle, and the different girls Stan’s given a whirl.

Hell, Clyde sets Stan up with dates.

But this. It’s…completely unfair.

“Seriously?” Stan asks, before he can stop himself. “Clyde?”

“What’s wrong with Clyde?” Kenny counters, half of a lecherous smirk gracing his mouth. “He’s got a lot going on. _A lot_.”

“Christ, dude. That’s my roommate.” Stan guzzles back the rest of his beer, slamming the glass back down on the bar with enough force that everyone, including his own mother and her book club, give him a bit of momentary attention. “How dare you.”

“How dare I _what_?”

Fully aware that he sounds jealous and possessive and terrible, Stan somehow can’t stop himself from replying, “After everything I told you, you throw _Clyde_ in my face?”

Kenny shifts on the barstool, gaining some distance from Stan. “Not this again.”

“Uh.” Bebe returns to her spot behind the counter, face scrunched up. “What’s happening right now?”

“Well,” Craig starts.

In a transparent attempt to distract them both, Kyle tries, “How about those Broncos?”

It only serves to make Craig more curious.

Bebe, too, is peering between Kenny and Stan like it’s some kind of tennis match. She’s a bloodhound for drama.

Whatever. Stan doesn’t have to deal with this. He shoves to his feet. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”

Kyle frowns at him, mentally telegraphing that he should sit down and shut up – _the plan was working_! – but Stan won’t do it. This was a bad idea. He’s had a long week, and he’s tired.

Exhausted, even.

Especially of this, of the way Kenny is watching him. Like he’s a fuck up.

Stan _is_ privileged. He’s used to being a golden boy. He’s used to succeeding, at most things.

Few, if any people in his life, have looked at him the way Kenny is now, with a mixture of revulsion and pity.

Stan will _not_ sit down and take it.

“I’m out,” he tells Kyle. “I’ll call you later.”

“He’s gonna be busy,” Craig cackles, and it’s a dick thing to say, but Kyle must like it. The bridge of his nose reddens in embarrassed anticipation.

Stan rolls his eyes and drops a twenty on the bar. Bebe tells him, “I’m keeping the change.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Stan offers her a pacifying grin. “I’ll let Clyde know he’s a jackass.”

“Fairly certain he’s already aware.”

“Doubling down on the message can’t hurt.”

She laughs, and Stan moves to leave the bar.

“Hey, wait.” Kenny grabs Stan’s elbow. “I wasn’t trying to scare you away.”

Stan shakes him off. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

Witnessing his entire plan fall to ashes, Kyle flinches.

But Kenny doesn’t, posture stiffening. An ugly rush of anger floods his expression, and when Stan stomps out of the bar, he _follows_.

Outside, the snow is falling in big, wet flakes across the parking lot. Which is empty, because it’s a bar, and everyone’s within a few blocks of their houses anyway.

Stan starts the slow march back to his place with Kenny hot on his heels, yelling, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Leaving?” Stan asks, too irritated to stop, or calm down. Or think.

He’s not even mad at Kenny. He’s mad at himself, for hoping. For wanting.

For not giving up.

He’s mad that he’s taking this all out on his best friend, even though it’s not even a little bit Kenny’s fault. And yet…Stan keeps walking.

Kenny is struggling to keep up behind him, orange Converse soaking wet in the slush. He orders, harsh, “Don’t do that!”

“ _What_?”

“Try to tank our friendship like this, man.” Kenny actually sounds like he believes it, like this is it. This is Stan surrendering, when the reality is that Stan can’t go an entire day without thinking about him.

Stan chokes on a sound that might be chuckle. “Is that what I’m doing?”

Affecting a drawl, redneck thick and spitting mad, Kenny barks after him, “Well, you ain’t exactly waving a white flag.”

“Me?” It almost gets Stan to turn around. Almost. He calls back. “ _Kenny_. I told you I like you!”

“I-“

“Yeah, yes, you told me you don’t like me,” Stan retorts, petty and jealous and so, so hurt. “You want nothing to do with me. _Fine_. At least respect me enough not to flaunt _Clyde Donovan_ in front of me.”

“Jesus, dude. Get off my back!” Kenny shouts back. His words ring in the cold winter air, echoing until they’re muffled under a thin blanket of snow. “I can’t change the way I am to protect _your_ stupid feelings!”

Stan stops short, beneath the dull halo of a streetlamp.

Stunned by his own ferocity, Kenny’s footsteps falter too. When the crunch of Converse on ice ceases completely, Stan can’t help himself.

He turns to face this thing head on.

“I don’t want you to change.”

Kenny says, “And I didn’t mean that. I don’t think your feelings are stupid. But I can’t- you can’t- you don’t know what you’re asking from me!”

Beneath the pale yellow light and white-blue filter of falling snow, Kenny is gorgeous and venomous, an impossible hothouse flower growing wild in the murky cold of their sleepy little town. His gaze is summer-blue, blazing hot, furious, even.

Stan can’t stand how badly he likes him.

But Kenny was right. They never used to fight like this.

They never used to fight at all, and then Stan opened his big, stupid mouth. He ruined everything. Their friendship is shattering under the strain of his unrequited love.

It’s exactly what Kenny said would happen.

“Look,” he tries. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I’m not trying to be this guy. I get that you’re not interested in me-“

“Not interested?” Kenny interrupts, voice flat. Unimpressed. “That’s what you think?”

“I _think_ I don’t want to blow an entire lifetime of us being friends because I…”

“You…?”

“You really want me to say it?” Stan asks, confused, and Kenny bridges the distance between them, getting up in Stan’s space.

“Yeah,” he says, with utter finality. The air from his lungs is hot against Stan’s lips, all aggression and machismo and something else that Stan can’t identify. In the middle of a snowstorm, he’s engulfed by this, a golden circle of warmth made entirely of Kenny, of this incredible, infuriating man. “I really fucking do.”

Stan hates to turn down a dare.

“Kenny, c’mon. Don’t make me say it. Not again.”

“Soldier up, Marsh.”

“Kenny,” he warns, and he can count fifteen different reasons why he shouldn’t move an inch. Instead, his fingers slide along the faux fur hood of Kenny’s parka, thumb grazing the jumping vein in Kenny’s throat. He hopes he’s reading this situation right, because if he’s not…

“Coward,” Kenny accuses, spiteful.

Challenging.

Stan hisses a breath, Kenny’s closeness branded on his lips, his lungs. His teeth. He grits out, “I like you. I like you, so much. It kills me how much I like you.”

Kenny’s breath shallows, hesitation written across his face, and Stan decides that no matter what Kyle says, this is it. If Kenny rejects him, again, he’ll back off. He’ll move on.

Maybe he’ll get a dog or something for company until he’s ready to invest in someone else.

Stan may be a lot of things, including a petty, envious bitch, but he’s never had to compel himself a date before.

He won’t force anyone to be with him.

Only, Kenny wrenches the paralyzing doubt from Stan’s mind, wrapping his hands around Stan’s hips to reel him closer.

Even through his jeans and the threadbare material of Kenny’s gloves, the heat of Kenny’s fingers brands Stan’s skin.

He arches his body incrementally closer, while Kenny says, “You’re such an obstinate fuck. And you have no idea what it’s like to be killed.”

It sounds like affection.

Stan’s chest tightens with want.

“Sorry,” he says, because he feels like he has to.

“Don’t apologize.” Kenny squeezes against Stan’s hipbones, fingers leaving an imprint.

Stan waits.

And waits.

He thinks his heart stops when Kenny tilts his head towards Stan, pantomiming a kiss.

But then, Kenny merely hovers there, waiting for some kind of cue. A sign, from a universe that has shrunk down to them, this street, and all this snow.

“This is wrong on so many levels.”

Stan pouts, Kenny’s exhalations ghosting across his mouth. “Don’t compromise your morals or anything.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know Stan.” Kenny’s got that dark, unreadable expression on, the one he’s worn a lot around Stan lately. But he jokes, “You might be a little too all American for me.”

Stan groans and pulls Kenny closer by the collar of his coat. “Shut the hell up.”

“Make me,” Kenny enunciates, half mischief, half a challenge, mixed with a tiny dash of fear.

It’s like Stan’s standing at the edge of a cliff while Kenny dares him to jump.

Stan’s not actually a fucking coward.

So he does.

He presses his lips, dry and nervous against Kenny, and Kenny’s mouth parts against him, easy. It’s slow, and sweet. It’s a middle school kiss, with zero heat.

Kenny’s the one who turns it wet and dirty, who adds tongue into the equation and pushes his body against Stan’s with all the subtlety of a cat, looking for pets.

Stan mumbles, “Is this alright?”

Because he has to. Because he’s been goading Kenny into this, pushing against his barriers. Maybe not coercing, but insisting.

“Christ, yes,” Kenny murmurs. And then adds, “C’mon, I can’t kiss you if you keep looking at me like that. It’s like molesting a cherub.”

Stan pulls back. “Really?”

Kenny thumbs over his swollen lower lip, and Stan’s tongue darts out to catch skin.

“Nah,” Kenny decides. “You’re a total smoke show.”

Stan flushes. He’s used to being the one in control, to pliable girls who sigh into him. Not hard bodied, fire-hot boys who are all hands and demands.

But he could get used to this, could get used to Kenny kissing him so deep and so frantic, like he can’t get enough of the way Stan tastes. Kenny is palming over Stan’s waist, working his way under Stan’s jacket and shirt. His fingertips are ice cold, but against Stan’s feverish skin it’s almost pleasurable.

Stan bucks up against the Kenny’s body, rubbing up against him with a renewed sort of urgency. When Kenny’s knuckles graze his ribs, he shivers. And, not daring to get more than a hairsbreadth from the tempting shape of Kenny’s mouth, mumbles, “Maybe we should go back to your place?”

“Yours is closer,” Kenny counters, with a nip and a slip of his tongue, the gentlest tease. “And I can barely feel my fucking toes.”

“Let’s get you warmed up.” There’s more than a hint of suggestion in Stan’s voice.

Kenny swallows and nods, stumbling after him when Stan begins to tug at his parka. The loosely packed snow makes the trip back to Stan’s apartment slippery, their eagerness for the main event making both of them careless.

The flurry coats their hair, turns their fingers numb, but Stan is burning up inside. This is a dream, and he will do anything not to wake up.

Soon enough they reach the outside of the two story building that houses Stan’s place, and practically teleport up the steps to the top floor.

Stan fumbles with the door knob one handed, shoulder blades pressed firmly against wood while Kenny mouths over the column of his neck. It takes a full minute, but the solid form behind him gives way, swinging wide open.

A Hail Mary that somehow lands.

Kenny uses the opportunity to jump him, leveraging Stan’s poor balance to vault into his arms. Hands full of Kenny, and Kenny’s ass in particular, Stan backs into his living room, the colors blurring in his hurried beeline for his bed.

A few feet away, Clyde’s stationed at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a pot of pasta.

“Hey Clyde,” Kenny gasps, barely pausing his assault of kisses against Stan’s jawline.

“Hi Clyde,” Stan greets him, carrying Kenny in the general vicinity of his bedroom. “Bye, Clyde.”

Clyde’s jaw drops, but Stan’s too busy being manhandled through his doorframe to care. He deposits Kenny gently on the carpeted floor,

“Finally,” Kenny exhales, lips moving against Stan’s while he works his own parka off his shoulders.

He sets upon Stan’s downy jacket next, tugging it off the broad sweep of his shoulders with insistence that verges on aggression.

“Aw, c’mon. At least close the door!” Clyde calls plaintively from the kitchen.

Kenny detaches himself from Stan for long enough to obey, nudging the thing with the toe of his sneakers and plunging the small room into violet darkness.

When he turns back to Stan, he’s chewing on his lower lip, features soft with the advent of uncertainty.

Stan hooks his index fingers through the belt loops of Kenny’s jeans. He hovers there, intoxicated by the intimacy, but paralyzed by the prospect of making a wrong move. “Are you okay?”

Kenny reaches past Stan, this time to fidget with the wall switch. He flicks the light on, off, on, and says, “I can’t remember the last time I was in your room.”

He’s entranced by the framed movie posters on the blue walls, the flannel print bed spread Stan’s owned since college. The bong Stan’s dad gave him, some shells Kyle brought back from the Jersey shore. Kenny’s eyes come to rest on a shelf full of trophies mounted above a slim desk, and Stan is aware that it’s all very high school sports god stuck in his glory days.

He didn’t have the heart to tell his mom to take it down when she helped him move.

“I don’t spend a lot of time in here.” He traces the shape of Kenny’s hipbones under his jeans. “T.V.’s in the living room, it’s easier to grade papers at school, and you guys are all…”

He makes a vague gesture towards the window, meant to encompass _out there_.

“Hey, it’s better than mine.” Kenny jokes, “My interior decorating skills leave a lot to be desired.”

“It’s not so bad,” Stan lies, thinking of Kenny’s bare bones futon.

Kenny shrugs. “I spend most of my time at home on my laptop anyway.”

Stan touches his nose to Kenny’s, affectionate. “I’ve never had the balls to ask…Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make money that way? Like, why do you throw yourself in the middle of danger? You never used to die so much, as a kid.”

Kenny’s expression goes dark. “S’better than waiting for the reaper to show up at my door. At least when I go courting death, I have a modicum of control over it.”

He begins to pull away from Stan completely, and Stan rushes to say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- I didn’t realize that was a sore subject.”

Decisively, Kenny snaps, “It’s not.”

“O-kay,” Stan replies, disbelieving. “D’you…I mean…did I murderize the mood here?”

Kenny’s face softens. He stalls out in his backtrack away from Stan. Which happened to be in the general direction of Stan’s bed. Kenny glances at it, and concludes, “No. Not even a little bit. C’mere.”

Stan crosses the space between them in two long strides, tripping up against the hard lines of Kenny’s body. Kenny kisses him, genteel at first, a chaste, refined thing that quickly devolves into their previous wonton abandonment. He helps Stan shrug out of his shirt, and his own follows, slumping onto the floor.

Bare-chested, Kenny’s impossibly hot. Stan wants to stop and stare, and he wants to kiss Kenny until he can’t remember his own name, the two impulses warring inside him. Kenny takes the initiative, slipping out his jeans. Stan moves his hands over the skin of his naked thighs, tugging at the waistband of his underwear.

Kenny’s hard. He can feel it against his cock, through the scratchy denim barrier between them. Stan can’t stand it, begins to unbutton his own jeans, and in the interim Kenny digs through Stan’s night stand, searching for lube, for condoms.

But when Stan’s pants fall around his ankles, it grabs Kenny’s attention again. He mutters, “Fuck. You’ve got no right to look that good.”

Stan laughs, pleased, and pushes Kenny back against the bed. “What’s the point of abs if there’s no one to admire them?”

“A universal question,” Kenny snarks, rolling his hips up against Stan. It’s easier to feel him, with only their boxers between them. The head of Stan’s dick is already poking out the front, and it catches against Kenny’s thickness. He groans, “Alright. We need to get these off.”

He snaps the elastic of Stan’s boxers against his hips, and Stan is very, very good at following rules. He shucks his underwear expediently, mouth going dry when Kenny does the same.

He’s pale, naked, his body a long, well-muscled line that Stan has wet dreams about exploring. He kisses wet and sloppy against Kenny’s mouth, trying not to crush him with his weight. But Kenny doesn’t care, surges up against him, bracing Stan’s thighs with his own.

He asks, “Are you going to let me fuck you?”

“Yes,” Stan gasps, close to begging for it. “Yes, please, yes.”

Kenny grins, grabbing for the discarded lube.

He makes Stan turn around, pressing his lips against the notches in Stan’s spine while he stretches him apart, splintering Stan’s control with quick twists of his knuckles. He splays his fingers in intervals, easing the tension of Stan’s muscles until Stan is close to sobbing with need.

And when Stan can’t take it anymore, is reduced to saying Kenny’s name in a sick, wanting mantra ( _Kenny, Kenny, Kenny_ ), that’s when Kenny withdraws. He dons the condom with practiced ease, bracing one hand against Stan’s flank.

The head of his dick presses tight between Stan’s ass cheeks, and when Stan says his name again, _Kenny_ , Kenny sheathes himself deep. Stan gasps out a noise that is half-pained, but it doesn’t hurt – Kenny prepared him well enough for that. It’s the shock of it that startles him, the sensation of Kenny touching him in a way that Stan hasn’t experienced in years.

Kenny bends over and breathes warm against the back of Stan’s neck, saying, “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Stan pants, burying his head against one of his pillows. He rocks back against Kenny, against the low level throb of his cock and how it’s making Stan ache.

Kenny laughs lightly and begins to move. Slow at first, like Stan might be fragile, but like everything else between them, his thrusts turn erratic, heated. He’s holding Stan’s waist, guiding him back while he drives into him, the slap of his balls against the curve of Stan’s butt a relentless repeat.

Stan palms over his own dick, jacking it ruthlessly to match Kenny’s pace.

He doesn’t realize how close he is to coming until it hits him, this tightening low in his belly and a choked sound that never quite makes it out of his lungs. Kenny groans appreciatively, fucking Stan through it with increased resolve, until Stan feels the pulse of his cock.

Kenny says his name, too, bites it out like a curse word.

“ _Stan_.”

Then he slumps against Stan’s body, placing one last, gentle kiss against the jut of his shoulder blade.

* * *

 

Later, laying naked across his own bed and watching Kenny dress, Stan asks, “Do we need to talk about this?”

Kenny _harrumphs_. “Absolutely not.”

“But maybe we should. Kyle thinks-“

“Nuh uh. We’re not taking Kyle’s advice on sex.”

“Why not?” Stan asks, offended on Kyle’s behalf.

“He lost his virginity in Token’s racecar bed.”

Stan opens his mouth. Stan closes his mouth. “Fair enough.” Then, because he’s curious, “Did you know? When we…last time, did you know that Kyle liked me?”

He studies the way that Kenny’s spine straightens, bone moving under skin. One of his shoulders lifts higher than the other, not quite a shrug. “Sure. It was hard to miss.”

“I missed it pretty easily,” Stan muses, eyes tracing the dimples low on Kenny’s back. The curve of his ass. The pale constellation of freckles on his right butt cheek. “Probably for the best.”

“Is it?” Kenny swivels towards him, one eyebrow arched. “He wanted it to be you.”

“Pardon?”

“Kyle, in the racecar bed. With Token, but…he wanted it to be you.”

“Are you trying to kill our vibe, here?”

“No.” Kenny finishes pulling on his jeans, zipping up his fly and doing the button with one hand. “I’m telling you what he told me.”

“That was high school, dude.”

“Sure, but…so were we.”

Stan frowns and pushes up on his elbows. His hair is mussed, a dark tangle over his head, and he’s got at least three hickeys along the well-defined line of his abs. He catches Kenny checking out his work, and is inordinately pleased about it. But, “What are you trying to say?”

“Maybe Kyle’s not over high school.”

“I don’t follow,” Stan says, the lie sour on his tongue.

“Maybe he’s using Craig to make you jealous.”

“I’m sorry, is this your way of asking me to break up Kyle and Craig?”

Kenny reddens. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“But you miss him? Craig? I wasn’t enough for you?”

“What? No, Stan, that’s not-“ Kenny huffs. “I was thinking it would be easier. If this was a one off. If Kyle and Craig broke up, and-“

“And Craig went back to Friday night BJ duty? Seriously, dude, that’s messed up.”

“Yeah,” Kenny agrees, scrounging around for his shirt. “Not my best idea.”

“No,” Stan replies sternly. “It wasn’t. You can’t keep using Tucker like that. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think Kyle’s playing around. He likes him.”

Kenny pauses. “No shit?”

“None at all.” Stan shifts forward to the edge of the bed, propping his elbows on his bare knees. “You’re stuck with me. Or your hand. Or myriad other options.”

He waits, patiently, to find out which of those three things Kenny will choose.

“I could try celibacy,” Kenny agrees, t-shirt bunched in one fist.

“You can try whatever you want,” Stan replies solemnly. “I’m giving you an out. If you didn’t want this-“

Kenny throws the shirt back on Stan’s floor. He walks over in three quick steps, tipping Stan’s chin up with his index fingers, forcing Stan to meet his eyes. “Hey. Tonight, I wanted this. Trust me. I wanted you.”

Stan experiences the briefest euphoria, a happiness that lights up every part of him, deep in his marrow. Then, Kenny adds, “Thing is…I don’t want more than this.”

The euphoria flees.

Stan lets it roll over him, the rejection like a sucker punch to the gut. But all he says is, “Okay. No repeats.”

Kenny flexes his wrist, moving to roughly cup Stan’s face. “Um, no. That’s not gonna work for me.”

He moves his thumb across Stan’s jaw. Strokes, and then forces it between Stan’s lips.

Obediently, Stan opens wider, sucks against the shape of Kenny’s fingerprint.

Kenny says, “I can’t do feelings with you, Stan. I _can’t_.”

Stan almost bites down.

But with a devilish smirk, Kenny leans in close.

He whispers, “But I can do _a lot_ of other things.”

Oh.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why this keeps happening to me. I swear, I did not mean to write this. (Also lolol if you came for the summary, that's next chapter, sorry).


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